


We Rise In Love

by hardlyfatal



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal
Summary: Jaime was Selwyn's deputy in the frontier town of Crownland, and then sheriff in his own right... until things went sideways and the Targaryens killed that dream for him. Ten years later, he's thrust back into the job after tragedy strikes. Now he has to try to keep Selwyn's daughter out of trouble, too, while keeping his family farm going, his father alive, and his brother from drinking himself to death, all while avoiding his sister.He should be wallowing in misery, drowning in liquor... how, then, is it just the opposite?
Relationships: Galladon of Tarth/Original Character, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 50
Kudos: 160
Collections: A Valentine for GumTree





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GumTree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GumTree/gifts).



> This is half-written already so expect the last half to come... eventually? Soonish?
> 
> Yes, ANOTHER Western. Yes, this makes my third incomplete Western I'm chucking at you. No, IDK what's wrong with me. 
> 
> Title is from "We Rise In Love" by Alaine. 
> 
> Cover graphic upcoming? Maybe? If I have the time/energy? This winter depression shit is kicking my ass. Send help.
> 
> For GumTree. She's extra wonderful and should feel aware of it at all times.
> 
> Thanks to the delightful and delovely SeaSpirit for her excellent betaing <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paterday - Sunday  
> Maidenday - Monday  
> Croneday - Tuesday  
> Warriorday - Wednesday  
> Smithday - Thursday  
> Strangerday - Friday  
> Materday - Saturday

.

~*~

.

Sheriff Selwyn Tarth had always tried to settle every problem requiring his involvement with words, and had in fact managed to defuse quite a lot of tense situations simply by talking until the involved parties had resolved their dispute or, more usually, been guilted into simply giving up and going home. 

Though he wasn’t above simply wrestling them into submission, but even then, he didn’t throw punches. No, he preferred to throw people, just picking them up and tossing them around into the dusty, unpaved main street of Crownland, over and over until they cried uncle. 

Wasn’t to say he couldn’t shoot. He could, and very well. Until his fifth decade arrived, at least. His eyesight started to go, and he figured that was it for him. He was ready to retire, and his deputy, young Jaime Lannister, was well and ready to take over for him. Off Selwyn went to the family farm, to help his son and daughter do what they’d been doing all along.

And for a year, all was well.

~*~

Jaime Lannister was a crack shot, the finest in the territory, maybe the whole west, and didn’t he know it? He made sure everyone else knew it, too, though some thought that might be because a fearsome reputation was half the battle; why square off against a sheriff you knew would beat you?

Though to his credit, Jaime used his natural gift of gab and tried things Selwyn’s way first, to see if he couldn’t convince everyone to quiet down. If they wouldn’t… he wasn’t opposed to wrestling, either, though in his case it took more the form of a well-placed right hook or two, instead of the bodily flinging of people hither and yon. He was a tall man, and strong, but… there weren’t many people in town who had that kind of strength, and they were all named Tarth.

It was Aerys Targaryen who ended Jaime’s brief career as sheriff, in a roundabout way. Aerys had always been, as Jaime called him, ‘bugshit crazy’ and well the town knew it. He raped his wife, neglected his children, and beat employees and animals alike until they begged for mercy. He rarely granted it.

He liked fire, had a habit of carrying a little box of matches around and shaking it back and forth to hear the contents rattle. Seemed to soothe him. He also liked to light those matches and flick them at people, laughing as they squawked in alarm and danced back to avoid the flames. 

Aerys picked the wrong day to antagonize Sheriff Lannister. He’d just been informed by his sister, who also happened to be his lover, that she would no longer hold the latter role. She’d just given birth to their second child and her husband, Crownland’s mayor, had begun looking at her askance and making comments about how neither son nor daughter bore him any resemblance and why was that?

“We’ll find a way,” Jaime had protested. “We’ll just avoid fucking.”

But Cersei didn’t like having his cock in her mouth, and despised the feel of his seed on her hands.

“Then we’ll leave,” he tried next. “We’ll leave town, go somewhere else. Oldtown. Winterfell or Sunspear, if Oldtown’s not far enough. Or even Braavos. Pentos. Meereen. Anywhere.”

“And how will we live?” Cersei had sneered. “You want me to live as the wife of a gunslinger? Itinerant, dragging two babies around? What’s the point of that?”

“The point is that you’d be my wife,” said Jaime, with a burgeoning sense of— something, growing in his chest. Hurt, yes, and confusion, for hadn’t she always professed a deathless and immeasurable adoration of him, because they were mirror images, reflections of each other? Destined, fated, to be together because of how they’d shared a womb? He’d have agreed to whatever she asked of him, if it meant they could live openly as husband and wife, raise their children without fear or shame. 

“I’ll put you in a house, we’ll have a nice little place—” he tried to explain, to make her see that they could have a happy, if modest, life together. 

“ _Little_ ,” she repeated with emphasis, then gazed around at the fine, large home she occupied as the wife of the wealthy mayor of their prosperous little community. “No servants, slaving all day to cook and clean and raise the children while you’re out shooting up the local vermin. Surely you don’t see me doing all of _that_. Really, Jaime, I’d thought you smarter than this.”

 _On the contrary_ , Jaime thought. He had been stupid before and was only then wising up to the reality of his relationship with his sister. They weren't fated to anything more than being siblings. They certainly hadn’t been reflections or mirror images, for reflections matched each other, only in opposite ways, and Jaime had given and worked and sacrificed, but Cersei never returned the favor. 

And in his belly? As Cersei took his silence for agreement and swept from the room in a cloud of rich fabrics and sunlit curls, he recognized the roiling sensation for what it was: disgust. For her, taking the pure and pristine gold of his love and tossing it in the dirt; for him, for offering it to a person who treated it like dross.

Thus Jaime Lannister was the wrong person to push, that unhappy day, but Aerys had never counted perception as one of his strong points. He’d flicked a lit match at Jaime, knowing full well he and several others stood near a barrel of lamp oil and the whole town would go up in flames, and laughed at Jaime’s expression of fury.

He hadn’t laughed when Jaime had tackled him and beat him half to death, however.

It had taken both Tarth children, in town to pick up supplies for their modest farm, to haul him away. 

“Stop,” the girl had panted in his ear, as he had struggled to free himself of their restraining arms and continue. “You’ll kill him.”

“Good,” Jaime had snarled, but there was no way free of the Tarths’ brawny embraces.

~*~

Aerys Targaryen died later that night.

It took much of Tywin Lannister’s influence, most of his wealth, and all of his stamina to convince the territory prosecutor not to bring charges of manslaughter against Jaime. It was only because the Tarths had come forward, having overheard and witnessed Aerys’ near-miss with the lamp oil, that it happened at all, because Tywin’s influence and wealth were evenly matched by that of the enraged Targaryens. 

Tywin paid off the prosecutor, the Targaryens the judge, and the matter would have been frozen in a stalemate if the Tarth children hadn’t come forward. 

Ugly, they were, one more than the other, and awkward with it. Jaime’d known them for years, since becoming their father’s deputy, had spent many an evening on their farm, sharing dinner. He counted Galladon, five years his junior, as a friend, and if Brienne hadn’t been female, and a full decade younger, he’d have considered her a friend, too.

But those ten years, and her being a girl, proved too much, too odd, a barrier to friendship. So he’d teased her, instead, suggesting she was sweet on him, and when she furiously protested she _wasn’t_ , because she liked Renly Baratheon instead… oh, he had her scarlet with embarrassment, so furious she couldn’t even speak, just made squeaking little peeps of agonized fury that made her sound like a kettle left on the boil.

When he’d taken over the sheriff position from Brienne’s father, Jaime realized for the first time that, even at only fifteen years of age, the poor girl was already as tall as Jaime himself. Homely, shapeless, and now not even able to be properly dainty in comparison to a man? The poor thing was doomed to spinsterhood, because the man who’d take up with her would have to be one-of-a-kind, absolutely unique in being able to see past those impassable flaws, and there were blessed few unique men in Westeros Territory.

Fortunately for Jaime, such was the Tarthian reputation for honesty that the few weak accusations of false testimony— that the Tarth’s prior friendship with him would inspire their untrue claims that Aerys had been trying to set the town on fire— were laughed out of the court. Jaime had been freed, and that had been that.

Or not.

~*~

Though Jaime had used Selwyn’s methodology of talking his adversaries into surrender and using violence only as a last resort, he lacked the other man’s tact and sensitivity. He’d convinced others to do his bidding, but in an arrogant and sarcastic way that left his foes with a bad taste in their mouths as concerned him, rather than the respect Selwyn had inspired.

Jaime had subdued his share of men– and a few women– during his tenure as sheriff, and they liked to talk. To each other, to the townsfolk, to the mayor. And the mayor listened. He didn’t like his goodbrother, didn’t like him at all. There was something in the way Jaime spoke in Robert’s presence, some sly mockery he shared with his siblings, that made Robert feel as if they were laughing at a brilliant jest he’d have guffawed at… if he himself weren’t the butt of it. 

Robert was no saint; he knew he was a son-of-a-bitch, with a flexible view of his marriage vows, no qualms about underhanded actions to suit his needs, and a willingness to abuse childhood bonds of friendship to get people like Jon Arryn and Ned Stark, men who’d known and loved him in his youth, to believe in and support him in bid after bid for the mayorship. 

But though he deserved it, he would not tolerate being made a fool of, not in his own home, by his own wife, unfortunate choice of wife she might be. He had made a terrible mistake, aligning himself with the Lannisters. They shit gold, yes, and were powerful, but he hated the way they slunk about, green-eyed and sly, as if they were actual damned cats. Their private jokes and insular loyalty and cold indifference to anyone but themselves was intolerable. 

Tywin’s health was fading, after the battle he’d fought against the Targaryens; he’d not be long for the world. And Tyrion hardly ever left Casterly Rock, the Lannisters’ huge farm to the west of town, preferring to drink himself into a stupor every night and day. Robert was stuck with Cersei, heavens help him, but maybe there was a way to get Jaime out of town, back to the farm, only having to see him for sept on Paterdays— if that, for Jaime was not one to prostrate himself before the gods on a regular basis.

“You’ve lost the faith of the people,” Robert therefore informed Jaime. “They don’t trust you. Don’t feel safe around you. Worry you might attack them, next.”

“And if they try to set the town on fire, I will,” said Jaime through gritted teeth. He had a bad feeling this would not go his way, and it was right. No matter what he said, Robert would not be swayed, simply held his hand out, expecting Jaime to place his sheriff’s star on his goodbrother’s meaty palm, and in the end, he did. What else was there? The mayor was the mayor, and the sheriff was nothing but his employee, at the end of the day.

And so that had been that. Years as deputy, a year as sheriff, and Jaime was— nothing. _Had_ nothing. He’d lost Cersei, had lost the occupation he actually loved and believed in, and now could either turn to farming— which he loathed— or…

There was nothing else, actually. Tywin had spent most of their money on paying off the prosecutor, and was too ill to run the farm. Tyrion, too drunk. It fell to Jaime to keep the family, such as it was, together body and soul. Cold and unfeeling though his father was, Jaime couldn’t let Tywin die impoverished and humiliated, and Tyrion was so far gone in drink that he became violently sick when he didn’t have any liquor for more than a few hours. 

Without a place to live, without the endless bottles of wine he imbibed, Tyrion too would likely end up as dead as their never-to-be-mourned, merely-tolerated father. The difference being, of course, that Jaime loved his brother. For his sake, for that of their father, Jaime situated himself at Casterly Rock, resigned to being… a farmer.

~*~

Selwyn returned, with great reluctance and greater number of misgivings, aches, and pains, to his role as sheriff, for who else was there? It was a thankless job, as Jaime could attest, for no one had thanked him even once for all he had done to protect their ungracious hides. 

A few had asked Galladon to take over, but he’d just married and had a child well on its way, and was a terrible shot besides. He had none of his father’s ability to kindly talk a person into calming down, nor the patience. He was not going to risk himself, with his new wife and newer child, for a position he’d despise and do poorly.

So Selwyn stepped up and, once more, became sheriff. This time, however, he came with a ready-made— if unofficial— deputy in the form of his daughter. Though not even sixteen, she had graduated school a year early, thinking to have more time to help her brother and father with the farm. But while she liked her goodsister, she was aware that Alys didn’t enjoy sharing dominion of the place with Brienne, though it wasn’t as if Brienne were fighting to keep the feminine duties to herself. 

Plowing and threshing, milking and gardening, were all backbreaking work but she’d do all of it with a smile on her lips and a song in her heart if it meant avoiding cooking and cleaning and laundering and mending, being cooped up in the house, no company, no sunlight. She didn’t know why women had permitted men to corral them, to pen them, in a house all day long. She didn’t know why women didn’t protest, didn’t revolt, didn’t strike and refuse and do what they wanted. 

“You’ll never find a man, wearing trousers and throwing hay bales and shoveling out the stalls like that,” Alys had commented, her tone slightly despairing, for if Brienne never married, that meant she’d be on the farm with them forever. Alys did not want that to happen. 

“Fine with me,” Brienne had grumbled, so Alys changed her tack.

“Shouldn’t you go to town to help your father?” she then began asking. “He might need your help with… things.”

“Things?” Brienne had demanded, with no little suspicion. The vagueness of it troubled her; she liked matters clear and distinct and specific. “What sort of things?”

“You know…” Alys shrugged. “ _Things_. Things he can’t do himself, now that he’s older.”

It only worked because there was just one thing Brienne loved more than openness and honesty and plain speaking, and that was her father. She had noticed him slowing down, in the year since he’d retired and left Jaime to be sheriff. He’d come to need spectacles for everything, not only reading, and on cold mornings his hands were so stiff he had to plunge them in warm water until he could bend them again. Brienne had grave doubts that, even if he could see a target he needed to shoot, his poor hands would be able to hold the guns and pull the triggers.

But _she_ could. She was a handy shot, every bit as deft as Jaime, as she’d proven to his dismay not long before he’d taken over Selwyn’s role. She’d picked off every single rusted old can set on the fence post a good distance away, with the same pinpoint accuracy Jaime enjoyed, and even a smidge faster, though he’d denied it steadfastly.

So she decided that her father could do the fancy talking, and any time that didn’t work, Brienne could do the shooting. Maybe someone would come along who could take the job. Maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, she’d make it work.

And she did.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ten Years Later_

Jaime couldn’t decide if it were good luck or bad that he happened to be in Crownland, picking up feed and seed and groceries, the day the Brave Companions came to town.

It hadn’t been long before it was clear how different Selwyn’s new tenure as sheriff would be from his prior standing in that role. There was a lot more talking done, this time around, and a lot less shooting, and no wrestling whatsoever. The amiable giant was tired and old and unhappy, and everyone knew it.

It had been better, those first few years when Brienne had come to the jail each day and helped her father through it. But over time, one nibling turned to two, to three, to four. All those mouths to feed, and Galladon had expanded the farm to bring in the income needed for all of them. 

An expanded farm needed people to work it, however. Thus Brienne had reluctantly returned to it, to help her brother, and without her, Selwyn’s work was… well, uninspired was the most diplomatic way Jaime could think to put it.

Little things got past Selwyn, at first. Without him to pleasantly remind Petyr Baelish of curfew hours, the saloon was staying open all night and day. With more hours to spend imbibing, patrons were getting drunker. Drunker men meant more fights, more noise, more smashed chairs and collapsed tables and shattered windows. It began to attract a lower class element, women who made a living on their backs and men who preferred to do as little honest work as possible, preferring to slouch about and supplement the meager incomes they eked by low-stakes gambling with a bit of petty larceny when necessary.

Thus crime increased in Crownland. Respectable women dared not leave their homes after dark, and some shopkeepers began to hire guards to watch their stores and inventories overnight, since they couldn’t rely on their sheriff to keep them safe. 

It all made Jaime grind his teeth in frustration. People might not have loved him, but he had been a good sheriff. There’d been no whores, no ten-man drunken brawls, no theft. A woman could leave her home without fearing she’d come to mischief at the hands of a whisky-sodden stranger only in town to rob what he could. A shopkeeper could return to his store in the morning without worrying he’d have to replace broken windows and missing inventory. 

Jaime had been proud of what he’d accomplished, something he’d earned his own self instead of having it bought for him, handed to him because of his father, his name, his looks. He’d worked hard, and then Aerys and Robert had fucked him over, and now Selwyn was letting it all sink into a mire of danger and sleaze.

His resentment was hard to bear. Jaime admired Selwyn as a man and loved him as a surrogate father. It was hard to watch his honorable vigilance fade into an exhausted apathy. Despite his frustration, however, he still enjoyed his forays into town, to see Selwyn again if not for the purposes of doing business.

One day as he drove into Crownland, there was a peculiar feel to the air, like the tight feel of rain-swollen clouds overhead just prior to a storm. Something itched in Jaime’s bones, some instinct that had served him so beautifully over his years as deputy and sheriff, had kept him alive and whole. As he leaped down from the wagon, tying the ribbons to a hitching post, he saw what it was.

Vargo Hoat, vicious fool that he was, stood outside the saloon with his similarly dimwitted companions, hooting at any woman unfortunate or unwise enough to come within ten feet of him, and laughing with his fellows in that lewd way he had that made Jaime want to give him a good walloping. Stupid, and arrogant along with it, Jaime had no doubt Hoat had come to Crownland to see exactly how weakened Selwyn’s guard of the town had become, and how much he could get away with.

Jaime’s bones itched the more he thought about it, knowing something was about to happen. He stayed alert, limbs loose and ready, as he went through his mental list of errands. It served him well, when one of Hoat’s group fondled the wrong woman and her husband fought back. Overjoyed to finally have an excuse to fight, they flung themselves into combat, as did most of the male townsfolk, and it was while Jaime stood back, watching for the best moment to insert himself into the fray, that Selwyn made his appearance. 

“Glad you’re here, son,” he rumbled to Jaime. Jaime’s heart gave that odd little clench it always had, to hear the sheriff call him that, with more affection and respect than his actual father ever had. It was beyond pathetic, he knew, but… Selwyn Tarth had been more of a parent to him than Tywin had ever bothered to try.

He only nodded in recognition of the other man’s comment and said, “Should I jump in? Or you want to just shoot everyone?”

He’d been joking, but the only one to realize it was Selwyn, who shook his head with a grin. The grin was still on his lips when one of Hoat’s toadies, overhearing them, decided to pre-empt the perceived threat and shoot first. His bullet was a careless fluke that found Selwyn’s heart with terrible accuracy.

The time it took for Selwyn to sink to the ground, hand coming to cover the new hole in his chest, seemed to grind to an excruciating slowness, and Jaime’s mind reeled and whirled and then, suddenly, clicked into decisive action. Almost before Selwyn hit the dirt, Jaime had his guns out and aimed. 

The other man’s shot had stopped the fight and the participants had frozen, breathing heavily, covered in dust, to stare at the sight of the sheriff dying. The one who’d fired was gaping, seeming surprised it had been his work. He stared at his own gun, at the smoke still wafting skywards from its muzzle before lifting stunned, apprehensive eyes to Jaime.

Fury coursed through Jaime’s veins, at this drunken fool who’d taken a brawl a step too far. He longed to beat the man senseless, to beat all of them until they fell lifeless to the street. Slowly, with deliberation, he cocked the hammer of one of his pistols.

The entire town seemed to hold its breath in wait of what he would do. There was the sensation that he stood upon a precipice, just as when he’d stopped Aerys from flicking one more match. The choice he made, in this moment, would change the course of his life.

“Jaime,” Selwyn rasped. He was propped up against the pillowy bosom of the fat young maester’s wife as her husband tried without success to stem the blood that pulsed out of the sheriff’s chest with every beat of his heart.

Jaime met Selwyn’s eyes, those piercing blue eyes that had taught him, inspired him, encouraged him, believed in him. Those eyes would soon close forever, Jaime knew. He did not want the last thing they saw being a vigilante act by his own protègé.

Jaime forced his thumb to ease the hammer back into position, snug against the chamber, but did not holster it or its twin. “Hold them,” he said to the men who ringed the site but had not engaged in the fisticuffs. “If any try to escape, shoot them.”

He fell to his knees beside Selwyn, the pain of it a welcome shock to ground him, keep him here-and-now, when it seemed like he was going somewhere else, somewhere far away from the loss and grief he already felt burgeoning, swelling and pressing, at the very edges of his mind. 

“I—” he began, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. “Selwyn, you— I—”

“I know, son,” the man managed, the effort pushing out another gush of crimson from his chest, each word feeling like a blow upon Jaime’s heart. “Will you—”

“Anything,” Jaime swore. He took Selwyn’s hand, heedless of the blood wetting it, and gripped tightly. 

“Brienne,” Selwyn gasped. “She—”

“I know. I will,” said Jaime. He knew what Selwyn meant, even without saying it; he’d confided in Jaime, many times, his concerns over his daughter’s trusting, naive heart. She lacked the crafty nature required to keep from being taken advantage of. Never considering for a moment that she might get over on someone, it wouldn’t occur to her that someone might try to get over on her.

Selwyn tried to speak again, his lips forming words, but he hadn’t the breath or strength to make them happen. Eyes locked on Jaime, he gripped Jaime’s hand one last moment, hard, and then went shockingly, suddenly lax. All the light went out of those blue eyes. 

He was gone. Selwyn was gone.

It took a while for Jaime to realize things again; sounds, smells all rushed back in at once. The thick scent of wet copper made his stomach roll; and the whispers and faint crying of those around them was nothing more than a susurrating buzz in his ears. Looking down, he saw his hands were damp with blood, his shirt smeared in thick streaks of it, a path of droplets across the thighs of his trousers. Carefully, he placed Selwyn’s big, worn hand on his chest, over the bullet wound, and stood. His knees were drenched, bearing two spreading circles the size of saucers, bright crimson.

“Someone needs to go to the farm,” a woman said. “I’ll—”

“No,” said Jaime. His voice sounded like it was coming from another county. “It should be me.” But he looked down at himself again, at all the red. He couldn’t go to the Tarth farm like that.

Seven bless the ladies of Crownland, their matronly little hearts unable to bear the tragedy of it all, needing to do something. They recognized a worthy project when they saw it, and burst into action.

In short order, one had steered Jaime to the livery, where fresh cold water was pumped into the trough for him to wash in. One had demanded he give her his clothes, every stitch besides his drawers, and watched with an unimpressed gaze as he numbly complied, then marched away with the gory bundle just as another appeared with a collection of items to replace the surrendered garments. 

Some were donations from their husbands; some had been plucked from the tailor’s ready-made shelf with an admonishment that it was for a good cause and he’d be paid for them later. Everything fit, though none of it well. It didn’t matter, as long as he was presentable.

Once he was clean and attired again, Jaime left the livery to find that everyone who’d been involved in the brawl had been removed from the street. In fact, almost no one remained, but among the stragglers was one of the town’s matrons.

“Galladon’s married to my Alys,” she informed Jaime, who then recognized her as Miz Turnberry. “I’m going with you.” Her tone did not brook any argument, and frankly, he was relieved to have some assistance with the grim task that befell him. 

Someone had fetched one of the hotel’s dingy tablecloths for Selwyn, draping it over his still form. It was already soaking through with blood where it made contact with his chest. Someone had, to the great danger of Jaime’s composure, tucked the edges around Selwyn as if they were making him snug for a good night’s sleep, and the idea of it— the contrast between the fanciful idea and reality— had him nearly losing a battle against the urge to weep.

“Bring him to the maester’s office?” He’d meant it to be a command, but it ended up a question, asked of no one in particular. Sam Tarly nodded agreement, however, and Jaime shuffled toward his wagon, reluctance making his steps drag. Galladon and Brienne adored their father, and rightly so. This would devastate them even more than it had Jaime. He helped Miz Turnberry into the wagon, then climbed up behind her.

The entire drive to their farm, she did not seem to expect him to say anything, to his immense relief. In silence, he groped for words, for the best way to reveal such a tragedy, and could find none. Lannisters didn’t cry, not if they wanted to keep from being castigated by the family’s stoic patriarch. Tywin had spanked them for crying when their mother passed away; they’d learned that lesson well, and hadn’t shed a tear when Tywin went on to his final reward. To Jaime’s shame, despite his best efforts, tears began to trickle down his cheeks, quickly dashed away. 

_Guess I’m not much of a Lannister_ , he thought, and the idea was— a relief, just a tiny scrap of deliverance in a day devoid of it. 

The farm appeared gradually as he rounded the bend in the dirt road from town. It was a tidy little place, a bit bigger than it had been when he’d first been there, near to fifteen years earlier. As he steered his team up the drive, a tall figure exited the barn and turned in his direction. It brought up a hand to shade its eyes against the sun’s glare, the gesture performed with enough feminine grace that Jaime knew it was Brienne, rather than her brother.

He wished he’d let someone else take on this chore, at that moment. He didn’t want to be the one to make the light die in her eyes, to watch the weight of loss settle on her brother’s shoulders. But who else was there? Of all of Crownland, he knew the Tarth family best. It couldn’t come from anyone else. 

Brienne didn’t speak as he drew the wagon to a halt and climbed down, helping Miz Turnberry to clamber to the ground. Brienne was watchful, a wait-and-see person who studied a situation before acting. She nodded and gave a tight smile of greeting to Miz Turnberry, but her eyes, shockingly lovely, did not veer from Jaime. They took him in, noticed the awkward fit of his clothes, saw his grim face and red eyes and who accompanied him, and asked, “Who’s hurt?”

Her demeanor was wary, curious, but even so, unconcerned. It didn’t occur to her that it would be a death that would impact her; probably expected him to tell her that Tyrion had finally drunk himself into the grave, or Cersei or one of his niblings had had an accident. She probably just figured he was being kind by carrying Miz Turnberry up from town. Jaime hated himself for having to thrust her into a cruel new world.

“There was a fight,” he said, feeling like the words were being dragged from some dark place within him, a string of jagged little stones cutting him up as they emerged. “Someone— misunderstood.”

Miz Turnberry climbed the front steps and entered the house, the screen door slamming shut behind her with a wooden thunk. Brienne squinted at Jaime, a worried frown appearing, more for the oddness of his behavior than what he was saying. “Misunderstood?”

“I made— a stupid joke,” he said, feeling himself sway a little. “Someone thought we were going to shoot them. So they shot first.”

“Who’s _we_?” she asked patiently. She came closer, her hands starting to lift from her sides as if preparing to catch him if he fell, and Jaime felt unreasonably grateful for it, and guilty; shouldn’t he be doing the catching? She was Selwyn’s daughter. Jaime was— nothing. Nothing to him, or his children. Just a friend… or was he? He’d seen blessed little of them the last decade, consumed with anger, working his own farm, coping with his family…

“Me,” he replied. The words weren’t jagged stones any longer, but shards of glass. “Me and— your father.”

For all that Brienne was watchful, she was bright. Perceptive. Well able to add up some numbers and come to a correct answer. With a gasp, her eyes rounded in comprehension.

“Galladon!” she screamed, her lung capacity such that it felt like the very air vibrated from the volume and intensity of it. 

And then she made for Jaime’s wagon, hoisting herself up onto its seat and taking up the ribbons without even a glance at him. 

When her brother emerged from the house, his wife trailing in his wake, his face was creased with worry.

“What’s happened?” he asked, even as he and his wife headed for Jaime’s wagon. “Miz Turnberry only said Papa had been hurt.”

“He’s been shot,” said Brienne. 

Galladon blanched and practically tossed his wife up into the wagon before clambering in after her.

“Mama— the children— you’ll…?” Alys called to her mother, who came to stand on the porch with two small children clustered around her and a third on her hip.

“It’s why I’m here,” the woman replied. “You stay there as long as you need, we’ll be fine here.”

Jaime barely had a chance to jump into the wagon before Brienne snapped the ribbons and set his team into action, making him fall back into the wagon bed with a lurch.

“How was he shot?” Galladon asked over his shoulder as they flew down the road.

Jaime repeated the little he’d told Brienne, voice raised over the rattle of the wagon, the clatter of hoofbeats. 

“How bad is he hurt?” Brienne demanded. “They didn’t get his shoulder again, did they? It pains him near as bad as his hands, when it gets cold… he won’t be able to raise his arm anymore, if so.”

They didn’t understand. And Jaime couldn’t tell them from the bed of a speeding wagon, shouting above the sound of the wheels churning over the rutted and dusty road. He didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing.

She slowed a bit, turning in the seat to look at him. “Jaime? How bad is he—”

“Just stop,” he interrupted. “Stop the wagon so I can tell you.”

She scowled, irritated by his stupidity. “We have to get there as soon as—”

“It won’t matter,” he blurted. “How fast you get there. It won’t matter.”

Comprehension dawned on her face, a slow relaxation of the muscles from confusion to shock, dread, denial, anguish. The ribbons went limp in her hands and Galladon took them, steering them to the side of the road and to a jolting halt.

Jaime leaped out, unable to continue while cooped up in the wagon bed. He didn’t care if they left him there, he’d walk back to town, he’d—

“Oh, no,” whispered Alys. She turned to her husband, big brown eyes filling with tears as she gazed at him, at how his big body tensed, how his pale freckled throat rippled over and over. She put her arms around him, drawing his head down to her shoulder. With a shudder, Galladon started to weep, great gulping sobs absorbing into his wife’s embrace.

Brienne, too, had climbed down from the wagon and stood there, still as a boulder, a mountain made flesh, hands clenched and eyes wide, disbelieving.

“But— how?” she asked, her voice plaintive, confused. She sounded so young, looked so scared. But she had no one to help her, no Alys to pull her into soft arms and rock her so she could tremble in safety. The only other one there was Jaime. His arms weren’t soft, but he’d try his best.

He went to her and pulled her close. She went rigid, hands slapping him away, the automatic repulsion of someone unused to being touched, but he persevered.

“Please,” he said brokenly. “I— he was— to me, as well—”

Jaime’d said it to get her to let him hold her and help her, but when she went limp and sagged into his embrace, he realized he needed it too, needed the holding and helping as well.

Her arms were no softer than his, but they were strong and warm, and the tears that wet his neck felt good, and right, like they were cleaning the blood off of him far better than that cold trough water. Jaime wondered if his own, similarly dampening the smooth skin of her throat, felt the same, if he were bringing her any comfort at all. 

He hadn’t been able to do much for anyone, the last decade. He’d run the farm, and made sure his father and Tyrion had what they needed, tried to maintain a relationship with Joffrey and Myrcella but… the days had run together, blurred into a numb sameness that had him feeling trivial, futile. Like there was no point to him, any longer. 

Jaime tried to pull back, to put some space between them, but she only clung harder, making a noise of protest that thrummed against him. He held her closer, dizzy at the relief he felt to be needed, to have something he could do, someone to help, someone to protect, after so long. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. His hand came up to cup her head, to press her face more tightly against his neck, and the other went around her waist to secure her there, too. He had her from top to toe, would not release her, would fulfill his promise to her father. Nothing would get her, hurt her, not again, not after this. Resolve filled him, leaving him tingling, like the rush of fresh blood to a deprived limb. 

They stood there for an hour, or a minute, or a mere second, clasping each other, rocked by grief. 

“How did it happen?” Galladon asked, breaking their reverie, and Jaime and Brienne released each other, stepping away and swiping at their wet eyes.

“Just as I said,” Jaime replied. “About a dozen men, half newcomers bent on trouble and half local men. I— I joked that we should just start shooting them, to stop the fight. I guess one thought I meant it and he— he shot him. Your father. In the chest.”

“Did you kill the man?” Brienne asked, her voice cold as ice. He felt a detached sort of pride in her bloodthirst.

“I wanted to. But Selwyn told me not to.” He could see her acceptance of it, of her father’s peaceful ways, war with her desire for vengeance, for justice. 

She gave a short nod. “We should get into town.”

Jaime looked up at Galladon and his wife as he and Brienne climbed back into the wagon. Galladon had straightened up but his face was ravaged, and Alys was watching her husband closely, part gentle and loving wife and part ravening she-beast willing to slaughter the world for his sake.

Was that how love looked, when it was true? As Brienne set the wagon into motion once more, Jaime cast his memory back through the years, trying to pinpoint when Cersei might have turned that fierce, vigilant expression toward him. She’d looked at him with voracious desire, with greed and lust, but… it hadn’t been for his sake, he could see, now that he had something to compare it to, a touchstone that threw into dim and pathetic contrast how feeble and empty Cersei’s attentions had been. She’d offered him no comfort, despising any show of emotion as weakness and worthy of nothing but contempt. 

Jaime felt abruptly hungry, in his soul, for— more. For anything, any show or proof of his worth, that he mattered, that he had value and was important. But he was sitting by himself in the bed of his own wagon. On the seat, Galladon had stretched his arm across to encompass his sister as well as his wife, all three of them pressed close, a solid unit taking comfort in each other. 

No one spoke. Wasn’t anything to say.


	3. Chapter 3

.

~*~

.

In the wake of Selwyn’s death, all of Hoat’s compatriots were rousted from town with the warning that their return would be met by being shot on sight. A token effort was made by a group of angered townspeople to evict the rest of the unsavory element that had come in the last few years to Crownland, but Jaime knew it was only a matter of time before they, or at least more of their ilk, returned.

It came to pass only days after Selwyn’s funeral. Brienne had caused a scandal by joining her brother and Jaime, Ned Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen, Edmure Tully, and Garlan Tyrell as a pallbearer but she only turned her face stonily forward, daring the naysayers to physically prevent her from carrying her father’s casket to its final destination.

They all trooped to the hotel afterward to partake of the repast the sept ladies had set out for the mourners. Galladon and Brienne formed a receiving line at the door to thank everyone who filed past for coming, though Brienne commented to Jaime how she knew most of them were just there for the food.

“Not like they appreciated him keeping them all safe for thirty years,” she sniffed. “The people of this town don’t appreciate hard work.”

And she’d shot him a meaningful glance, which Jaime turned around and around in his head until he finally settled on the only explanation that made any sense: she was referring to how easily they’d discarded him as sheriff, a decade earlier. It made a warm little glow of pleasure start in his chest, which he also had to examine before he realized that her awareness of how he’d been mistreated made him feel… understood. Brienne was the only one who had ever acknowledged his conscientious protection of the ingrates of Crownland during his deputy and sheriff years.

Well, they had to do something, and quick; in addition to the normal slew of robberies and rape attempts came arson, seemingly for the sheer fun of it, and some of the men were agitating to form a vigilante group. They were looking at the end of justice in that small prairie town, and no mistake. Jaime was never so glad to live out on the farm, where he kept pistol, shotgun, and rifle loaded and primed at all times, and a squadron of dogs that didn’t like people all that much roaming free at night.

He was none too pleased, one day, when he got a late start on the day, and a late finish in the afternoon. Thus it was during that odd blue hour between dusk and twilight that he rode into town for the mail and to pick up lard and baking powder for the biscuits his Aunt Genna declared necessary for any civilized meal.

Things being what they were, however, every shop in town was shut up tighter than a septa’s thighs the moment the sun set, as was the post office, so Jaime had made a trip for nothing. He was just contemplating stepping into the saloon for a snort of the piss-water they called whiskey when he heard a shrill exclamation from nearby, muffled by the buildings between Jaime and whoever was kicking up a fuss.

His instincts from his days as sheriff launched him into action; he spun around and pelted in the direction the scream had come from, skidding around a corner to find two men grappling with a woman who, for all her short and slight stature, seemed to be giving them a lot of bother for their efforts.

Jaime flung himself at the trio, hoping the impact could help make up the difference in numbers. He bowled over the men before they even knew he was there, kneeling on the chest of one while he punched the other into submission. When he turned to deal with the second man, however, it was to find he was already unconscious, thanks to the efforts of one Daenerys Targaryen; she had grasped the man by his ears and was banging his head against the ground with unseemly enthusiasm.

“I think you got him,” Jaime told her, his tone dry, and then grinned when she looked up at him, disheveled but with an unholy light of satisfaction in her eyes. He reached down and, when she didn’t release the man’s ears, gripped her arm, hauling her upright.

“He’s still alive,” she complained, shaking herself free of his grasp.

“Not for long, if I know your family,” Jaime replied blithely.

She snorted in amusement, studying her accosters as they lay in a heap at her feet. “Quite.” Then she glanced at him. “You didn’t have to help me. Thank you.”

He stiffened, unsurprised but offended. “Did you think I’d let them rape you, just because your family and I have a history?”

Her eyes rounded. “No, not at all! I meant, since no one has been doing anything to address the crime problem… I didn’t think anyone at all would come. Not _specifically_ you.” She peered at him. “Why are you in town so late?”

“Hoped something would still be open. It isn’t,” he replied succinctly, then squinted up at the sky. Full dark had fallen in the time it had taken to come to Daenerys’ rescue. “Let’s get you home.”

She drew herself up to her full, rather unimpressive, height. “I can get home by myself, if you would be kind enough to escort me to my buggy,” she informed him snootily.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaime grumbled, but followed her down the alley to where she’d hitched her team to a post on the main street. He helped her into it, then climbed into his wagon and followed her out to the Targaryen spread. He didn’t pull in, just watched from the dusty lane until he saw her trim figure in silhouette against the bright-lit rectangle of the open doorway as she passed through it.

Then he went home and had that drink he’d been wanting, wrenching the whisky from Tyrion’s protesting hand to take a swig directly from the bottle.

“This town is going to all seven hells in a handbasket,” he groused at his brother.

“Down the hatch!” cheered Tyrion, and poured himself another.

~*~

When Mayor Baratheon spoke about the acquisition of a sheriff after sept the following Paterday, asking for any parties interested in the job to come talk to him, not a single person expressed any interest. Most people wouldn’t even meet Robert’s eye, averting their gazes to the tall stained-glass depictions of the gods permitting beams of gem-colored light to fall upon their unworthy heads.

“I’ll do it,” rang out a strong young voice, and Jaime groaned when Brienne launched herself to her feet, to be met by a noisy and immediate protest.

“Yay, Auntie Bee!” cheered Endrew, her eldest nephew and sole supporter, who certainly had no idea what he was encouraging his foolish aunt to do. He was quickly hushed by his mother but Brienne tossed him a fond smile before turning back to Robert.

“It hasn’t even been a week since my father’s— since my father—” She kept stalling on the words, finally giving up and bypassing them altogether. “And it’s started already. We’ve had three robberies, two thefts, and five women have been accosted.”

Six, Jaime mentally corrected; the Targaryens hadn’t wanted it about that their brightest star had been importuned, but he doubted it was a coincidence that the two men mysteriously disappeared from the alley where they’d been left, never to be seen again. Targaryens liked their faces clean, even if their hands were filthy.

“Shouldn’t be out after dark,” grumbled one man, and Brienne whipped around to face him, eyes blazing.

“So women should live as captives at home, only allowed in public during daylight hours?” she demanded. “You wouldn’t say any blame lies with the men who have attacked them? Or those who don’t do anything to stop it? None at all?”

“No one’s saying that,” Robert said soothingly, though from the look on the naysayer’s face, he had been saying precisely that. “But you know it’s impossible for a woman to be the sheriff.”

“Why?” Brienne’s simple response seemed to stump the mayor; he gaped at her, jaw moving as he tried to find the words to counter her.

“A woman’s place—” Robert began feebly, but she made a slashing gesture to cut him off.

“Is where? In the home? Penned in like veal?” she said savagely. “That’s not realistic. Besides, whose home? I don’t have one of my own, and I’m not likely to acquire one any time soon, since I’m the last woman in town who’ll ever be married.”

The silence that fell was full of tacit agreement, but Jaime found himself scowling at the stupidity of it; why _wouldn’t_ Brienne get married at some point? There was nothing wrong with her that he could tell. Granted, she was ugly, and on the tall side, but you hardly noticed once you got to know her.

She’d been a good kid, he recalled from when he’d been closer to the Tarths, and there was no evidence to the contrary even after a decade had passed. And she had pretty eyes. A man could do far worse. _Jaime_ had done far worse, that was sure. He glanced across the room where Cersei sat with an expression of vacuous adoration plastered on her face as she gazed at her husband. There was a woman who knew where her bread was buttered.

“It’s just not done!” was what Robert managed at long last.

Brienne rolled her eyes, blatantly unconcerned with offending the mayor. Then she said, “Then you should hire the only man brave enough to do it, and get Jaime back.”

It took him a moment for what she’d said to fully process between his ears. Then, when it had, he became aware that every last one of the sept’s occupants had turned to stare at him, incredulous. To Jaime’s consternation, he felt his face heat with a blush, and thought it might be more due to Brienne’s unprecedented acclaim than to the accusing gazes of the townsfolk.

Robert darted a nervous glance toward where the Targaryen contingent was lined up in their ancestral pew, like a row of those dolls that fit into each other, shortest (Daenerys) on the inside and tallest (Rhaegar) on the outside.

“Ahaha,” said Robert, that booming laugh he used to defuse tensions and fool people into having confidence in him. He’d gotten elected four times on that laugh alone. “I don’t think that—”

“Don’t say no for our sake,” said Rhaegar in his slow, deep voice. “For all his old sins, Mr. Lannister has shown himself more than suited to the task.”

He met Jaime’s shocked look with the faintest of nods, and Jaime knew he was being thanked for helping Daenerys.

“If there are no other objections?” Brienne asked testily. “No other suggestions? None of you fine, strong men are willing to step up and do it?”

On the far side of the sept, Ned Stark was straining to get to his feet, but the iron grip of his wife was keeping him firmly on his stolid and honorable backside. Similarly, Sansa had Robb in her talons, and Jon was being sat upon by Arya and both smaller brothers.

“I didn’t think so,” Brienne finished in a tone of supreme disgust, before turning to the Starks. “Not you, Stark family. I know you all would step up, but you’re needed at your farm.” Eight doltish faces beamed happily at her in response. She faced Jaime once more. “Then the only question that remains is: will you do it?”

“I, uh…” he began weakly, standing, and then to his everlasting shame: “ahaha…”

Her expression was that of the most horrible, wonderful faith and trust and belief Jaime’d ever had the misfortune to witness, and it was aimed squarely at _him_ . She was standing there, _shining_ at him, like a tall and homely star, and Jaime couldn’t find it within himself to disappoint her.

“Of— of course,” he managed to make himself say. “Yes.”

Her smile near to blinded him. “Good,” she said. “And I’ll be your deputy.”

Jaime sat down on rubbery legs, head awhirl at what she’d just accomplished, what he’d committed to, what she’d volunteered for. Somehow, he doubted that was what Selwyn had meant when he’d asked Jaime to look after his daughter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to sea_spirit for betaing. Go read [her excellent new story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060453)!

.

~*~

.

Their first task, Brienne decided, was to inform Petyr Baelish that he would no longer be permitted to run his saloon all hours of the day but had to go back to closing down at three in the morning, as had been the practice before Selwyn had given up.

Baelish didn’t take kindly to the restriction, tried first to coax, then bribe and finally to argue with Jaime and Brienne about it, but she had come armed with a copy of the town’s by-laws and pointed at the line specifying at what time all businesses in general must close, and saloons and bawdy houses in particular. 

“We won’t fine you for staying open past curfew until now,” Brienne told him. “But starting tonight, you close at three, or we shut you down permanently.”

Baelish shot a look at Jaime, the message clear: _Are you going to let this woman speak for you?_

Jaime just returned his look with one of his own: _Yes, I am._ Jaime fostered no delusions about which of them was burning with righteousness about getting Crownland back in order after Selwyn’s lapse. He suspected a goodly part of it was guilt over that very same lapse; her father was the one who’d let things go to pot, so she would be the one to fix his error.

But another part, a stronger part, was purely outrage that decent people— women— were being victimized. One thing the Tarths despised was abuse of power. It stirred up all their protective instincts, of which there were many. Brienne in particular had something of the avenging angel about her, the way her eyes would blaze with determination and honor and goodness and all the other things Jaime had cared about, once upon a time, and which he still thought about with nostalgic admiration, much like Tyrion harbored fond memories of his childhood, when he’d thought dragons truly existed.

Upon leaving the saloon, they went door-to-door to each business, asking for details about the theft and damage each had suffered. Jaime let Brienne take notes, as her handwriting was far superior to his. Plus, it supported the pretense that he was in charge and she but his faithful deputy. It was one thing for the town to be scandalized by a mannish woman, but it would not do to gain a reputation as a womanish man. He had to live in the stupid place. He wasn’t about to make his life even more unpleasant than it already was.

With the salary he was making as sheriff, Jaime could afford to hire help to work the farm in his place, and he took on a few fellows young enough to be cheap but old enough to know what they were doing. Then he put Tyrion on rations, permitting him only a single bottle of whiskey per week. 

“You’re not even thirty,” he said in response to his brother’s bleary protests. “You want to kill yourself before then, go find another way. But you won’t do it with drink.”

Brienne’s deputy pay wouldn’t afford her more than one new hand, but she was glad to fork it over for the sake of her family, and soon young Podrick Payne was doing his part to keep the Tarths in good standing.

The first month, everything went beautifully. Law and order were restored, the shopkeepers were able to stop fretting that they’d be robbed blind, and women could once again walk down the street unmolested. A sense of pride in knowing that the people of Crownland were safe permeated Jaime. It was very welcome, since he hadn’t been proud of much of anything in a long time. 

He was proud of Brienne, too. She was tough as nails when it was warranted, but also capable of great care and gentleness, as she showed in dealing with the women who’d been attacked. More than once, she’d held someone who wept her heart out while describing what happened to her, and the contrast between her brutish appearance and the tender delicacy of her big, strong hands had Jaime’s breath catching in tender fondness and— it could not be denied— yearning. The sensory memory of her arms around him as they’d wept haunted him in his weaker moments, he was ashamed to admit, if only to himself. It had been so many years since he’d been touched with anything even resembling care that a persistent hunger for it gnawed at him, sharper and sharper every day.

Brienne spent a good amount of her time treating Jaime just as kindly. Once he had his eyes opened to it, he began to view Brienne’s earnest scolding for him to take better care of himself as… wifely. Oh, she wasn’t doing it for any particular reason. She didn’t have her cap set for him, that was certain, but nor did she pity him. No, she was just taking care of him as she did everyone else. She had identified a need, decided she was capable of filling it, and gone right ahead in doing just that. 

But Jaime’s heart didn’t care about any of that. All it knew was that this wonderful girl, this strong and sweet and earnest girl, was doing things to help him, to make his life better, for no reason other than because she was good and decent. His heart saw her, the true pure core of her, gleaming and untarnished, and it loved her.

At first, he told himself it was just a lingering affection from when they’d known each other before, when he’d been Selwyn’s deputy. Then he told himself it was just respect, from one lawman to another, that unshakable trust placed in someone who held his life in her hands. 

Before too long, however, even he couldn’t mistake or deny what he thought, what he felt. The hours in her company, leavened by their bickering, his teasing and her blushing and, when needed, the seamless way they could work together, slipped by effortlessly. When she left for the night, he hated to see her go and would watch until the shadows swallowed her as she rode out of town, wondering and worrying if she got to the farm safely. 

And when she returned in the morning, he felt such gladness that he had to restrain himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her with welcome. He tried to do his part to take care of her, as well— she might nag him to get groceries in, rather than just buying his meals at the hotel or saloon, but he used those groceries to cook for both of them. 

Granted, his first attempts were dreadful, but— still, always, kindly— she corrected and taught him until the food he placed before her wasn’t half bad, if he said so himself. And he’d swear in court that she was proud of him, if the way her eyes shone, how she beamed at him, were any indication. The sensation her smiles gave him, an odd swooping in his belly, made him feel like he could fly.

The second month, the newness of Jaime’s reinstatement with Brienne as his deputy, wore off. All the miscreants had either been run out of town, and kept out, or caught and prosecuted. Crownland was back to being its boring old self.

With one notable exception. 

Baelish was straining against the three o’clock rule, and made no bones about his ire. He protested on the grounds of having his right to make money constrained, and then on behalf of his working ladies, who, he insisted, were all despondent about the cut in their income. He even tried to claim that his saloon gave various men a safe place to spend the evening, rather than attempting to ride home while inebriated. 

“Why, they could fall off their horses!” he claimed, his hand to his chest to evoke the altruistic concern he was, theoretically, expressing. “If they even manage to mount in the first place!”

“Why, Mr. Baelish, you’re all heart,” drawled Jaime, flicking an amused glance at Brienne, whose eyes smiled back. “But if the people of this town can’t function within the bounds of the law, they need to find another town.”

“Try Eyrie,” Brienne suggested as she turned to leave. “The miners there are rolling in gold, I hear, and there’s ten men to every woman. A good whoremonger could make a killing there.”

Facing away, she missed the expression on Baelish’s face, but Jaime did not. Baelish liked to flatter himself a businessman, not a whoremonger, and Brienne had cemented his bad will with her comment. Jaime filed it away, the knowledge that he’d have to watch carefully lest Baelish try something to intimidate her. Wouldn’t work; Brienne was as implacable and unmovable as the mountain upon which the town of Eyrie was perched, but it wouldn’t hurt to try sidestepping the uproar it would cause to have to run Baelish and his girls out of town. 

He made to follow her out of Baelish’s office, but the man stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“If you change her mind, I’ll make it worth your while,” Baelish breathed, sending a waft of mint-scented air between them. 

_Ah._ Apparently he was viewed as just as morally bankrupt as everyone else and merely bowing to Brienne’s reforming ways. Jaime had only a split second to ponder how to spin it; should he present himself as the same as every other weary and brow-beaten male caving to a woman’s demands? He decided that would be best, because there wasn’t a soul in the territory who’d believe he felt a genuine kinship with Brienne’s convictions… though he did. 

The idea of whores repelled him; who’d want someone who had to be paid to fuck you? Half the pleasure was being wanted, desired, needed. The only thing a prostitute needed from you was your money and a quick finish.

And he wasn’t blind to the plight of the women who did it; if they had any choices in supporting themselves, it wouldn’t be on their backs. There was just blessed little a female could do to bring in an honest dollar, not in those untamed lands.

Then there was the logistics of it. If the patrons of Baelish’s saloon never stopped their rowdy celebrations, if they kept up their soused carousing throughout the day, there was never any respite from it. Never a quiet and peaceful moment devoid of drunken singing, laughter, arguing, nor of the crash of breaking glass or discordant plunk of the long-untuned piano, all of it punctuated by the occasional unconvincingly ecstatic outcry by one of the ladies inspired in her performance by the promise of a hefty tip to accompany her fee.

Jaime settled for a smirk and, “You don’t have that kind of money,” letting Baelish do the work in guessing his motives. He sauntered out, replacing his hat upon stepping onto the worn boardwalk. 

“He try and bribe you?” Brienne asked as he joined her, squinting up at the sky, no doubt guessing at the time. Selwyn’s watch had gone to Galladon. The sun was directly overhead, so it was noon, and no wonder Jaime was hungry. 

“Yeah.”

She didn’t ask if he’d taken it; she didn’t need to. Her huff of laughter at the silliness of the idea made him want to gather her in and kiss her senseless. Who else would know without a lick of doubt that he was above bribes? No one, that was who. Even Tyrion would have wondered. 

Not Brienne.

They crossed the street through billows of dust thrown by a passing wagon, to the apartment over the jail where Jaime was living those days. 

“We should finish the chicken from yesterday,” Brienne commented as they climbed the stairs. “It won’t last another day, in this heat.”

The domesticity sent a pang through him as he extracted the chicken from the cold box. Brienne was already slicing bread. He retrieved the pot of mustard from the cupboard and they sat down to assemble sandwiches. Brienne poured them both glasses of tea gone cold from the night before and they doctored it with sugar.

They ate and drank in companionable silence. With Brienne, the urge Jaime usually felt to fill the emptiness with words and wit was calmed. He had no duty to entertain. Just his presence was enough. 

“How’re things going at the farm?” he asked eventually. “Podrick doing well?”

Brienne swallowed, nodding. “Yes. Quick learner, and careful. How about your new hands?”

“They’re good,” he answered. “One of them shows promise and I’d like to promote him to foreman, but I don’t trust him.”

“Has he done anything?”

“No. Just a feeling.”

Brienne eyed him a moment, then nodded. “Tyrion’s at least doing well in managing the accounts, you said.”

“Turns out when he’s not senseless all the time, he can actually help.” Jaime was aware of the bitterness of his words and tone. It had been a hard ten years, running the farm by himself after Tywin’s apoplexy rendered him good for little. Aunt Genna kept the house, but everything else had fallen on his shoulders while Tyrion tried his best to kill himself with drink. 

Brienne offered an encouraging little smile. No judgment from her, for that bitterness. She understood. 

After lunch, their next stop was the Stark farm, from where they’d had a complaint of a cow gone missing. Brienne was welcomed like a long-lost family member, Jaime like the tolerated acquaintance he was. Ned immediately swept Brienne away to discuss the matter with her, his two eldest sons chattering along in their wake, leaving Jaime with the four younger children. 

The eldest girl, Sansa, was already causing a stir among Crownland’s young men. She was lovely, entirely wasted on such a provincial town. Brienne had said there were plans for her to attend a ladies’ college in Oldtown and Jaime had no doubt she’d thrive there, catching the attention of some wealthy young fellow who’d keep her in a manner befitting her gentility.

The other three were wilder, near to feral as best Jaime could tell; grubby little urchins in torn clothes, faces smeared with dirt, they ran screeching around the yard like savages. He was shocked that proper little Catelyn Tully Stark would permit any of her offspring such shocking behavior, frankly. Though the iron control Cersei kept over her— their— joyless children wasn’t any better, he supposed. 

_If I had children_ , he thought, _they’d act better than this, but they’d be happy_. In place of the Stark beasts, he imagined a passel of sons and daughters playing and laughing, blond heads bright and blue eyes sparkling in the sun. The sheer want of it swept through him like a tempest and his formless longing for Brienne took shape, gained urgency.

_I have to do something about it. I can’t just go on this way._

It had been a decade since Jaime had let himself want more out of life, had fostered a dream he could strive toward. The prospect was… terrifying, frankly. He’d never given his heart to anyone but Cersei, and she’d been cruel, greedy, demanding. Brienne was none of those things, never could be, and yet the idea of presenting it— even to her, who would be so kind and gentle if she refused him— had him breaking out in a cold sweat.

“What’s wrong, mister?” demanded the filthy girl Stark, swiping a muddy strand of hair from her face and leaving a streak of it on her forehead. The little pest knew damned well what his name was; the ‘mister’ act was on purpose. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Maybe I will be,” he replied snidely. “If I am, I’ll aim for you.” He ran a revolted eye over her. “It would be an improvement.”

“Jaime.” It was an admonishment, though warmed with amused affection, as Brienne returned from her meeting within the house. “She’s twelve.”

Jaime bit back a response that would have made him seem twelve, as well, and only clambered back onto his horse to canter back to town.


End file.
